


Secondbreath

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Season 3 Spoilers, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal isn't sure whether an identity crisis is inevitable in his line of work, or a sign of how far he's fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secondbreath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at collarcorner (LJ). The prompt (in short): "Neal - sick or not sick?"  
> Disclaimer: still not called Jeff.

 

 

Eventually, Neal shrugged on the dark blue jersey, rolling his shoulders and pulling at the collar as he looked in the mirror; it fitted him perfectly, but he didn't care for this version of himself. He looked closer to his actual age and far too ordinary, un-authoritative, like a wayward son dutifully heading home on a Sunday to catch the game with his family.

“So, you’re actually going through with this? I hate to tell you, but it smacks of a set up, mon frère.”

Neal shot a rueful look at Mozzie's retreating reflection in the mirror. A moment later he heard the clink of a wine bottle against glass. “Well, the way Peter and Hughes put it, I don’t think I have much choice."

He really didn't. They had ambushed him in the conference room on Friday afternoon, apparently short a running back for the annual summer football game between White Collar and Organized Crime. A very unsubtle allusion to a foot pursuit through the streets of Barcelona in ’04 between the CNP and someone matching Neal’s description had been tendered as proof of the athletic ability the unit’s team was missing. Hughes, for his part, had looked reluctant to invite Neal to a bureau social event, but apparently the prospective humiliation of losing the game to Organized Crime was far worse than the humiliation of needing a criminal to win it. The argument that Neal had planned to go to the Met hadn't gone over particularly well; neither had the argument that he wasn’t _technically_ part of the FBI, or that his leg was, weirdly, starting to feel very funny.

“You know you’ll be a target for every Organized Crime agent on the pitch? This is how they get you, luring you in for a 'friendly game' so they can make your death look like an accident.” Mozzie contemplated the colour of the wine. “It really is a suburb plan.”

“I appreciate the encouragement,” Neal said, flatly.

“Well, at least you won’t have to put up with the suit’s mind games much longer. We’ll be on that plane out of here before you know it…if you survive today that is. Or if I survive _this,_ ” Mozzie said with distaste, tipping out the contents of his glass into the sink and rummaging through the wine rack once more.

Neal rolled his eyes and tugged at the polyester material irritably, glaring at his reflection one more time before he ventured out into the solid heat of the afternoon, leaving Mozzie to diminish his supply of pinot noir alone.

He could simply not turn up. After all, this was Peter’s thing, not his. Neal had seen the pictures from Thanksgiving hung on the wall of the Burke’s home, knew Peter had been taught to play by his father and brother, had played through high school, college and Quantico - and now with his colleagues. It was fraternal, familial and completely alien to Neal. If he was working a straight con, was in character, then it would be infinitely different, but this fell into a strange grey area and not the kind Neal favoured.

But his relationship with Peter rested on tenuous ground. Neal knew the smarter option was to simply play along (as it always was), now that their game of cat and mouse was in full swing and the structure of their relationship was twisting. He’d tolerate the team bonding and macho posturing for an afternoon because it would lull Peter and possibly buy him some breathing room in the process. There was a niggling, barely touched thought in the back of his mind, that it would be a relief to have some time out from Mozzie too; the relentless pressure to cut and run was grating on him and he found himself wanting to push back against the plans being made for him if only to make a point. Mozzie’s haste unnerved and frustrated him in equal measure. New York was his home; if he ran, the city would be lost to him forever and he wasn't sure that it was a price worth paying.  

Besides, Neal thought as reached the corner of Riverside Drive and hailed a cab, contrary to popular belief, he did know the basics of the game, the knowledge a remnant of an early con (thank you very much Theodore Haas, trust fund baby, dudebro extraordinaire). And, he had always enjoyed upsetting other people’s preconceptions.

 

*

 

Central Park was alight with activity; crowds of people thrummed through the pathways and bridges, runners weaved past idling tourists and through their photo opportunities, vendors with identical 'I heart NY' key chains and t-shirts stood on what seemed to be every corner, jangling noisily. 

Neal spotted Peter as soon as he neared the North Fields. Standing seemingly at the edge of it all scanning the area anxiously, Peter was the only still figure in a milieu of activity. Behind him, Neal could see where agents and their families, including Elizabeth, had set up blankets and chairs in the dappled shade of the trees beside a makeshift football pitch. Jones, Diana and were laughing with a couple of agents Neal didn't recognise. Most were wearing collegiate baseball caps or shorts with their team shirt, looking a lot like overgrown frat guys. He suppressed the sudden urge to slip away before he was spotted and forced himself forward, barely faltering a step.

“Elizabeth! Peter conscripted your Sunday too?” Neal said by way of greeting as he reached them, giving her a solemn, conspiratorial look.

She laughed. “No, actually, I would never miss a chance to see Peter run around in little shorts.”

Neal pulled a face and Peter, ignoring him, jabbed a finger in his shoulder. “ _You_ are cutting it close. Kick off is in five.”

“Well, then I’m five minutes early."

Peter was about to reply when Bancroft, who was refereeing, blew his whistle and gestured for all the players to gather on the pitch.

After setting out a few ground rules, the teams broke off to talk plays and tactics. The looks Neal was getting from some of the opposing players were less than friendly, but he shrugged it off, giving them a broad smile in return. It was laughable to him that they thought he would be intimidated, and more so that they were making the effort. As Peter began the briefing, it quickly became clear to Neal that the general plan was to feed the ball through to him to make the runs, as somewhere in the process he'd been deemed the most likely to outrun the opposition. Neal nodded in all the right places, making a half-hearted attempt to look like he was listening, but eventually his attention wandered to across the sprawling lawn, over to the skyscrapers looming up past the trees at the far end, the only tangible indication of the city around them. The light was a little on the bright side for sketching, but the composition was good from this angle, he thought, narrowing his right eye to gauge it. There was a tube of acrylic among his art supplies that would get the shade of cerulean just right. His fingers twitched in anticipation.

"Lets go team, _go go go!_ "

Jones clapped Neal on the back and he looked up to see everyone taking their positions on the field. Peter, clearly mistaking his disinterest for apprehension, jogged over with an encouraging smile. “Look, it’s okay if you’re not any good, it’s just a friendly game.”

“Oh yeah, real friendly with Ruiz and his cronies over there,” Neal said.

“You mean fellow agents?”

“Sure.”

Peter couldn't quite keep the amusement off his face because there was a tell-tell twitch of his lips as he asked, “You clear on what to do?"

“Um, get the sphere-ish thingy to the end thingy, right?” Neal said, with an exaggerated look of confusion. “Or - no wait - is it the other way around?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Peter gave Neal a gentle push towards the field, the same way Neal imagined a parent would nudge a reluctant child into the classroom on their first day of school, before getting into position for the kickoff himself.

On the first play, Peter and Jones, playing in the offensive line, rushed the ball through to the quarterback, Monroe, who passed to Neal. Neal caught the ball easily and sprinted down the left side of the field, throwing in fake steps and passes as he went. He got to the end zone untroubled and made the touchdown to whoops of delight from their team and the crowd. Neal amiably returned the high-fives from his celebrating teammates, trying not to look too pleased with himself. The dumbstruck look on Peter’s face as he jogged over was almost worth the indignity of wearing poly-blend fibres in public alone.

“You’re good at this,” Peter said as they regrouped for the next play, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“I’ve had a lot of practice in running away from FBI agents,” Neal replied, flashing him his best shit-eating grin, the one that never failed to elicit a satisfying eye-roll from Peter. He wasn't really sure why Peter, of all people, was so surprised; all sport was based on strategy, scripted and coordinated, but was also dependent on moments of creativity and unpredictability. And deception, whether with his words or his body, always came easily to Neal.

As the game progressed into the late afternoon, Neal found himself starting to relax and enjoy himself, his mind quieting as his body grew tired. Mozzie may have been right when he told Neal that he wasn’t a follower, but there was a strange kind of relief in tracing the lines of the play book unthinkingly. The future condensed right down and the only time that mattered was that which spanned mere minutes and seconds. It also didn't hurt that they were winning by a large margin and Ruiz was looking particularly disgruntled. 

Sometime near the end of the third quarter, Diana intercepted the ball, two opposing players chasing closely after her. Neal made a run forward and caught the pass from Diana, but as he turned to go up the field he saw a blur of white in his peripheral vision before something slammed into his chest. The world tipped and the ball slipped from his fingers, disappearing up into the air as Neal hit the ground with a rattling force, his vision suddenly filled with an expanse of glaringly bright blue sky. A coppery taste filled his mouth as Ruiz – the blur of white – and Saunders landed heavily on top of him; if he'd had any air left in his lungs to cry out Neal felt sure he would have. Ruiz and Saunders got up and moved away as soon as the whistle blew and it was all Neal could do to roll onto his hands and knees, struggling for air.

There was a touch to his back and it was Diana’s voice that asked, “Caffrey? You all right?”

He managed a groan in reply, which he realised didn't sound particularly reassuring. There was blood welling in his mouth - he'd cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth - but all he could do was let it run inelegantly onto the ground as he panted uselessly. 

“Neal?” Peter crouched down in front of him, words laced with concern. "Easy, easy. Just try and breathe slow." 

It was an agonising few moments before Neal could catch a breath, shaking with the relief of it. Peter produced a tissue from somewhere and handed it to Neal to wipe his mouth. “I'm good. I'm okay,” he said, once his breathing had started to even out. 

Peter offered Neal a hand up, but a sharp pain flared in his ribs as he started to move, causing him to double over with a groan. “You sure about that?” Peter asked, quickly lowering Neal back down to his knees, keeping one supportive hand under his elbow. 

Neal nodded. "Yeah, just - just give me a second." The pain in the left side of his chest was fierce, but he hadn't heard or felt anything crack. He waited for it to subside, before he let Peter help him over to where Elizabeth was sitting, easing him down next to her. She found him an icepack from someone's coolbox and he spent the rest of the game hunched over with it pressed against his ribs, hoping he wouldn't be sick.

By the time the game ended a short time later he was at least feeling composed enough to hide his discomfort. The White Collar team was victorious, and Peter jogged over to Neal and Elizabeth holding the team’s trophy gleefully - if you could call a battered bit of tin a trophy, which Neal would not. He gave Peter an incredulous look as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet. “This was all for _that_?”

“It’s the FBI's New York Division Summer Football trophy,” Peter said, as though that explained everything. “It’s a sacred, coveted thing.”

Looking to Elizabeth for support and receiving none, Neal shook his head. “Talk to me about sacred when you’ve held a Rembrandt in your hands.”

Peter looked at him sharply.

“It's a figure of speech," Neal said quickly. "Wow, y'know I think I might have hit my head - "

Peter rolled his eyes, lightly catching hold of Neal's arm. "C'mon, we'll give you a ride home."

 

*

 

Neal watched with brooding detachment as the wispy plumes of steam rose from his coffee and disappeared up into the bright shafts of light that flooded the conference room. They had been going over cold cases for most of the morning and sitting in a hard-backed chair and looking at tedious reports was doing nothing for his bruised ribs or his darkening mood.

Mozzie had still been in Neal's apartment when he had returned the previous evening, apparently having found the right vintage to fuel a number of new escape plans, all of which required more of Neal’s attention than he had been willing or able to give. After promising to discuss everything later Neal had called Mozzie a cab, but there was an unmistakable tension between them, the fault lines that had been rumbling for the past few weeks finally becoming visible.  A rough night had followed an uncomfortable evening, with the persistent pain in his side making him too restless to sleep but too worn out to do anything else as a distraction. The bruising wasn’t quite as spectacular as Neal had been expecting, but he must have done more damage to his muscles than he had thought because the pain that ignited in his chest with each breath left him unusually tense and fractious.

It felt as if everyone was demanding him to nail his colours to the mast, but had neglected to consider that his very nature made that a near impossibility. He had options, more than there had ever been; the big score was within his grasp and with it the freedom to live an extraordinary life, but he was reluctant to leave the steady, secure existence that had somehow always seemed further out of reach. In that long night of wakefulness, it became clear that both dreams were now playing out side by side, but, he realised with disarming clarity that he wasn't the architect of either one.

“I know it’s a beautifully presented cup of the government's finest roast, but you are meant to drink it at some point, you know.”

Neal looked up at Peter and smiled. “I’m just savouring the rare sight of a coffee made by your own fair hands.”

Peter's eyes narrowed. “Right. And the reason you’ve barely moved or turned a page for the past two hours is?”

Neal gestured stiffly at the open file in front of him. “Oh, just…focusing. Honing in, the usual.”

Leaning back in his chair, Peter regarded Neal critically. "You're pretty bruised up after yesterday, huh?"

Admitting defeat, Neal allowed himself to wilt just a little. "I think it's safe to say I won't be rushing back to repeat the experience."

Peter laughed, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve got to admit, I had no idea you would be that good. Where did you learn to play like that? I thought you hated football.”

“It may have come in handy for a…job, once or twice."

“A _job,_ ” Peter echoed, wryly.

“Yeah, it helps with making friends to be able to talk sport at the office or clubhouse." Neal waved his hand. “Wherever.”

“That what Theodore Haas would say?” Peter asked with a casual tone that suggested he was asking about the weather, not the multi-million dollar pyramid scheme case the FBI could never break.

“Who?” Neal asked, his expression blank and open.

Peter gave him a look. “Well _however_ you learned it, you shouldn’t let that talent go to waste.”

"I'll keep that in mind," Neal said wryly, and in the absence of another form of distraction from the line of conversation, he reached out to pick up his now lukewarm coffee; the movement was only slight, but the surge of pain it caused made him gasp with surprise. He held his side instinctively, leaning forward to try and ride it out. He didn't need to look up to know Peter was eying him worriedly.

“You taken anything for it?” 

Cautiously, Neal took a deep breath, finding it was just about possible. “Yeah, hasn’t done anything though.”

Peter frowned. “It hurts when you breathe?”

Neal nodded, trying to straighten up without success. "I think trying to start a painting last night was a mistake, must have - what are you doing?”

Peter had walked around and snagged Neal's jacket from the back of his chair. "I'm taking you to the ER - "

"What? No, Peter - "

"Humor me," Peter said, helping Neal up and gently steering him towards the elevator.

 

*

 

They sat together under the glare of the fluorescent lights of a small triage room in St Vincent’s, Neal perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, watching Peter as he absently flicked through a pamphlet about lyme disease. The medical history forms lay discarded on the bed next to Neal’s hand, half complete with mostly guessed answers.

The ER had been surprisingly busy when they had arrived – apparently he wasn’t the only one having a crappy Monday - but after a cursory exam the intake nurse had swiftly moved them from the waiting room into the triage area. And if he had any doubts about whether he should be at the hospital, they were rapidly fading. The car ride over had been excruciating, even with Peter driving more carefully than Neal would have thought him capable.  His chest felt tight and now that they were in the relative quiet of a hospital room he could hear himself wheezing. Panic began to well in his stomach as he fought harder and harder for each breath. He closed his eyes, feeling sick and lightheaded. 

"Neal?" He felt Peter's touch on his shoulder. "Hold tight. I'm going to get someone." There were footsteps, and a few moments later Peter returned with a doctor. 

After a few questions, the doctor removed his shirt to listen to his chest. Sweat was starting to bead on Neal's forehead and he clenched his fists in the fabric of the bed trying to keep himself from panicking. The doctor stepped back and putting his stethoscope around his neck, sent out a call for assistance. He gave Neal a brief smile, one that didn't take a con man to see past and manoeuvred Neal's legs up onto the gurney. ”There’s a scratching sound when you inhale, which suggests that the lining around your lungs has been damaged, most likely by a broken rib. We’re going to take you through to Resus so we can take some x-rays and see what’s going on. We’ll get you on some oxygen too, make you a bit more comfortable.”

Neal saw Peter turn and ask the doctor a question, but the world blurred and then everything went dark. He must have been unconscious for a few minutes, because he woke in a different hospital room to a scene of controlled chaos; people around him were moving in and out of his line of sight, gloved hands touching his body, cutting away his clothes. A calm, authoritative voice meted out instructions, measurements, numbers, doses. An oxygen mask had been placed over his mouth and nose, but he could still barely breathe through the pain, his chest hitching before he could take in enough air.

“Neal? You with us?”

Someone tapped his face and an unfamiliar voice called his name as he was rolled onto his side, but Neal was too busy trying to pull himself back together to reply. There was a tugging in the side of his chest followed by a sudden, agonising pressure as a tube was slipped in under his arm. He heard a sharp cry of distress, only realising that it was his own when Peter’s worried face filled his vision, leaning across to brush the sweaty hair from his forehead. 

Neal felt his arm being moved and something cold was pushed into the back of his hand, but he refused to look; an icy substance flooded through his veins and he started to tremble as it quickly sunk deep into his body. He moved his hand towards Peter who thankfully seemed to get the message, drawing Neal’s arm into his warm hands, and rubbing from wrist to elbow and back again.

Contented, Neal rolled his head back and looking up, was surprised to see the clear blue sky from the park above him, only now it was criss-crossed with hundreds of vapour trails that simultaneously receded and protruded from the sky until they formed a bizarre, smoky lattice. This wasn’t the picture he had wanted to paint, Neal thought blearily, as his vision started to swim and fade; he wanted reflective, breezy Hockney not nightmarish Dali.

 

*

 

_When Neal was eighteen (but Nick was twenty-two), he saw the ocean for the first time. Or the start of it at least, standing with Mozzie on the windswept deck of a ferry to Ellis Island. His heart had been pounding, the air saltier than he had expected. The wind had swept the deck with the same ferocity as a summer storm back in Texas, the kind that would howl through the dilapidated porch, carrying away the flecks of peeling paint and dust, making everything seem clean and revived, if only for a while._

_They had been the only people out on the deck that afternoon, aside from an elderly man and his young grandson; the way the boy was looking out at the horizon, Neal thought it must be his first time out on the water too. He spent most of the trip sketching the boy’s expression of excitement, knowing it mirrored his own._ _Mozzie told him stories about Europe and Asia while he drew, of the places Adler’s money could take them and the things they could do. He told Neal about the labyrinthine canals in Venice, the faded glory of Cairo and the vast bazaars of Istanbul; stories always sounded better, bolder, when spoken aloud, he thought, instead of read quietly from old library books._

_He always remembers how he felt when the boat finally docked back in Manhattan, wild and windswept, like he had breathed in enough air for a lifetime. His dreams that night and many after had been filled with the roar of the ocean and the whisper of the wind, of the infinite possibilities that seemed to stretch out before him like that vast, dark body of glimmering water._

  

*

 

Neal woke uneasily in the darkness. His hearing returned first, sounds gradually drifting towards him like sheets of sand picked up by the wind; there was a constant, low, white noise somewhere in the distance, permeated intermittently by a soft ringing. As he neared full consciousness, the sounds became more distinct: the scrape of plastic on linoleum, the click of a switch and the hum of a heart monitor.

“Neal?”

He opened his eyes, blinking against the soft light of the room and was relieved to see Peter there, sitting next to the bed. Neal tried to piece things together, but came up short, an unnerving wave of disorientation rolling in and shifting everything before he could put it in its place. “Peter? What - ” Neal trailed off, too groggy to formulate the right question. 

“Easy, it’s okay. You’re all right. Do you remember where you are?” 

“We were in the ER,” Neal said hesitantly.

“Yeah, that’s right. You blacked-out in quite a dramatic fashion,” Peter said with a tired smile. "The doctor said you had a broken rib that irritated the lining around your lungs, which was what was causing the pain and the difficulty breathing. There had been some bleeding so they put in a chest drain for a bit. A few stitches, no surgery.”

Direct and decisive, Peter gave him the information as he would the particulars of a case file, but even in this state, Neal didn't miss the softness of his voice. Neal nodded his understanding and shifted slightly, testing the body that was under his ownership once again. As he did so, he felt the sheets brush against his bare left ankle and suddenly wondered with cold disappointment if that was why Peter was there after all.

“You in pain?” Peter asked, misreading his expression.

Neal shook his head; he wasn't really, but the fog still clung to his mind so he asked, “Is it still Monday?”

“Yeah,” Peter looked at his watch. “Barely. You’ve been out of it a while on the morphine and sedatives they gave you. El just left and Jones and Diana were here earlier. I tried to get a hold of Mozzie but…y’know.”

Neal nodded. “I do.”  He turned and looked out of the window at the spread of bright city lights beyond, still feeling strangely unsettled, like he’d forgotten something important but couldn't remember what it was. “I was having these…dreams,” Neal started, but trailed off when he turned back and saw Peter’s odd expression. “What?”

“You…came around a bit earlier when El was still here, started rambling about Dali or Degas or something.”

Neal’s heart dropped like a stone. “I did?”

“Then you were talking very worriedly and earnestly about lettuces,” Peter said, breaking into an amused smile. “You were pretty high, bud, don’t worry about it," he added, seeing Neal’s discomfort. 

Neal ran his teeth over his bottom lip and looked away. “Right, yeah.” He wondered what Peter might now suspect, what he might have accidentally let slip to him. Neal was pretty sure he wouldn’t be here, trackerless, if he had said something really incriminating, though he knew Peter was meticulous, careful; he would bide his time and play his hand when the time was right, just as Neal would himself.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Neal replied lightly. “Just, of all the things, I didn’t think it would be a football game that would get me, that’s all.”

Peter huffed. “Well Sanders and Ruiz got reamed out by Hughes if that makes you feel any better. I think he may have even used the term _valuable asset_ at one point.”

“Better than morphine,” Neal answered with mock sincerity, making Peter laugh.

Peter leant forward and rested his arms on his knees. “You know, I meant what I said, about not letting your talent go to waste, Neal. A couple of my buddies and I are playing a game next month, you should join us.”

Neal smoothed his hand over the bed sheet. “It was just another role, Peter, a part to play,” he said, not missing the strange look of disappointment that flickered on Peter's face.

“Well, the offer stands, think about it.” He straightened up, running his hands over his knees. “You could be my secret weapon,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

Neal laughed then, flashing a tired smile that belied the anxiety churning in his stomach. Next month. Neal had never really lied to Peter and given the choice, he wouldn’t start, not here, not now. He nodded and looked down. “I would like that.”

 

 

 

  _End_


End file.
